Songs of Content. 



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Songs of Content 

91 Volume of wmt 



BY THE LATE 



Ralph Erwin Gibbs 

Published under the Auspices of the 

English Club and the Literary Magazines of the University 

of California, and Edited with 

an Introduction by 

Charles Mills Gayley 



Paul Elder and Company 
Publishers, San Francisco 





•jbis\'^ 


LIB«^«Y Ot CONGRESS 


..St 


Tw« CoDiM Received 


MfY 12 1904 


Oeovrlfht Entry 


CLASS 6^ XXc. Na 




1 / L ? 1- 
COPY B 





o3 



Copyright, 1 90 3 
iy Paul Elder and Company 



The Tomoye Prei» 
Saa Frmndtco 



The Prize. 

A thriftless one there was who ever sought 

To weave a vagrant fancy into song ; 

Baubles he framed in fretted verse; and long — 

In love for these his small creations — wrought 

Till each, as from its maker ^ s heart, had caught 

A mimic beat. But friends who saw cried, " Wrong 

To waste thy Day thus! Not with rhythmic throng 

Of dreams — with deeds are this WorW s Prizes bought ^ 

Tet still this idle Singer in the Sun,— 
Rhyming his chime of words, with moistened eyes. 
Mood-caught in mesh of verses fancy-spun, — 
Would answer nothing save, in wistful wise, 
*' We go strange ways to seek one Goal. The Prize 
Is his who smiles content when Life is done.'" 



[iii] 



Introduction. 

I undertook to prepare the poems of Ralph Erwin Gibbs 
for publication, primarily because the poetic nature and the 
noble character of the young man had so endeared him to 
his associates that it seemed fitting to erect out of his own 
work some monument that might keep his memory fair 
among us and comfort those by whom he was most beloved. 
But I had not worked deep into his manuscripts before the 
conviction came that not to have preserved the best of them 
for the public would have been no mere mistake, but an in- 
justice. Of his lyrics the more beautiful, and of his poems 
of life and death the more seriously considered, deserve an 
honorable place in the estimation of Californians. If my in- 
terest in the author does not deceive me, they will win their 
way not only where promise untimely stricken is deplored, 
but where the comfort and the grace of art are for their own 
sakes welcomed. To our prosaic world there is but rarely 
vouchsafed the seer who with calm regard contemplates 
mystery, for whom deity wears a human air, and corrup- 
tion assumes the incorruptibility of ideal form — the magician, 
at whose touch life and language kindle into song and the 
portals of the heart swing open. When the gods have be- 
gun to dower in poetic wise some gracious youth, and we to 
suspect him of the rapturous gift, — if then they love him be- 
yond measure, and take him, it is but natural that we should 
cherish with uncritical affection whatever fragment of his art 
he may have left ; that we should delight to conjecture what 
manner of poet he might have been, what blessing of com- 
forter. All this have some of us, of diverse tastes, done in 
respect of these Songs of Content. We have also tried 
the impartial view ; and we think that others will share with 
us our generous error, if error it be, that some two or three hun- 
dred verses (and that is much) of this young man's making 
deserve, independently of personal considerations, to be called 
poetry and to live ; that they are of the stuff that engages the 
sympathies of men for semblances not ephemeral, of the strain 
that enhances joy and lightens sorrow. 

[V] 



Introduction. Several of the pieces here included were regarded by the 
author, in his modest way, as mere prentice work. They 
bear the marks of youth, and arc preserved partly for the 
associations that attach to them, partly for occasional lines 
too good to be suppressed. But others, such as A Moment^ s 
Halt, (Quatrains of Qobeleth, The Prize, The Lesser 
Rubdifal and The Heretic, possess intrinsic value. Thev have 
a message for the writer's fellow man, — simple, sincerely con- 
ceived and graciously delivered. To souls that stand between 
the pretentious urgency of the Age with its scramble after 
fatuous ideals and the cynical lethargy of the Individual for 
whom hope has long since been steeped in the wash of sense, 
this young man's gospel of rational acceptance, willing service, 
gratitude, comes with comfort, and, even though one admit 
not all his premises, with cheer. The keynote of all his 
singing is struck in the sonnet with which we have opened his 
book : 

The Prize 
Is his who smiles content when Life is done. 

A simple creed, but impressive because so thoroughly con- 
sidered, so deliberately and variously restated, and so optimis- 
tically sustained, no matter how unpromising the materials out 
of which it be constructed : 

The Wilderness 
Is blushing ^ir ; shall we not be content ? 

Content to know our Journey is not long, — 
That, soon though we drop out, or stray a-wrong, 

The Caravan is creeping toward the Goal, — 
And we have cheered the noon-halt with a song. 

Though this poet, with the Preacher of his Quatrains 
(Qoheleth), accepts limitations that an idealist would reject: 

We know — one thing we knoiv ! — This Boon of Breath 
We forfeit when the cold Hand tummoneth, — 

Still he insists upon the ideal qualities of 

The sweetness of this Cup of Life. 

He worships no Cyprian delight or Cyrcnaic satiety of sense, 
nor does he ignore the mingled properties of the draught 

[vi] 



of existence, — **the interlaced scarlet and ebon of this tap- Introduction. 
estry, — " still he declines to underrate the provision that has 
been made for mankind here and now. Therefore, to the 
ascetic who reviles " The Goods of Earth as of the Beast," 
he can reply : 

That man shall surely please the Master more 
Who joys outright in his right earthly store, 

Who drains a brimming measure of Life's Sweet — 
And dowers Me with what aboundeth o'er, 

Who flings the Bird his crumbs ; and doth no worse 
Than merry with the Show we still rehearse ; — 

Who comforteth the Players in it, — then 
Returneth calm into the Universe. 

If this be Hedonism, it is a manly and enlightened Hed- 
onism, not only altruistic, but rationally progressive. It has 
no more touch with the infidelity of Fitzgerald's Omar than 
it has with the beatific credulity of tradition. It rests in no 
smooth accustomed phrase, shutting its eyes lest it should 
doubt, — 

By echoing Credo, shall I grasp the Truth ? 

and yet it yearns with a practical hope, that meliorism 
founded on experience that outvalues a thousand certainties 
outworn : 

Though we reach not the Vision, — only yearn, 
A little way, and fall, yet we return 

Never the self-same track ; so may not Man 
From some far peak at length the Plan discern ? 

That the poet is by no means moving under the religious 
influence of Fitzgerald is even more abundantly apparent in his 
reconstruction of the Tent-maker which is to be found in the 
Lesser Rubaiyat made from McCarthy's translation and based 
upon quatrains not used by Fitzgerald. The Omar of 
Gibbs's more genial Rubaiyat asserts a Soul, a Justice, moving, 
equalizing all. 

This poetic expression of belief, much more mature than 
one would have expected from a man of twenty-seven, 
cannot, I think, but appeal with its large and lucid utterance 

[vii] 



Introduction, to many, even those who may not agree. The frankness 
with which the Riddle is stated, the contentment with which 
it is left unsolved, the dignity of these goods of earth, the 
supremacy of the moment, the responsibility of each to share 
with others, and give thanks : these tenets were in themselves 
enough to enlist one's interest even though one might hope 
that the Riddle be not insoluble after all. But there is more 
beyond: the Singer <* faces toward a larger light," a "fairer 
dream and nobler than of yore " ; and with a poetic instinct 
he finds the solace of his uncertainty not in science nor in 
logic, but in the Song that at once creates and comforts, 
weaving its '• rhythmic throng of dreams *' of that which may 
be — "to lift the sadness from the weary soul." It is in this 
way that, by some genuine if unconscious bidding of art, the 
young poet closes each of the three poems that deal with 
the problem of existence. They were still in manuscript, 
dropped from his hand that tranquil afternoon last spring, 
when he rushed from his study to save his dog from a falling 
tree and lost his life. Cecidit velut prati JJltimi fios. 

When one considers the manner of his death, these lyrics 
of the joyous flood of life, of its beauty and its tragic chance, 
have a pathos all their own. For him no more " the sweet of 
the first-cut grass," nor "the noon-haze on the ridges," nor 
" meadow a-quiver with dew-brushed green where the quail 
trooped past," nor *♦ thousand- voiced hush of the woods" ; 
as with his Bold Blue Jay, it was with him, — all in a single 
day : 

Life is dear, yet all too near 
The Shadow is lurking, the thing we fear, 
Though it be the month of May. 

How near to the heart of nature he had always been 
appears in every line of the delicate Song for Summer, the 
Siesta, and many another poem. Continually the mot juste, 
and that of which it bears witness : the practiced and atten- 
tive eye. The playful fancy and emotional fervor of his 
verses need no advertisement, nor the glad amusement, 
half-reproachful irony and lambent humor of the rondeaus 
and ballades in lighter vein. Occasionally in the lyrics one 

[ v'i' ] 



thinks that he hears the Elizabethan viol and lute. The influ- Introduction. 

ence of Fitzgerald, Browning, Poe, Dobson, and even of 

Robert Brough and Eugene Field is here and there also 

revealed ; but the reminiscence is rarely more than of some 

extrinsic quality of form. He has his distinctive note, his style. 

Some of his poems display not only large and imaginative 

outlook on life and shrewrd observation, but felicity and 

finality of phrase unusual in the work of a young man. 

There is something of the inevitable in that memorable 

stanza of A Moment^ s Halt, beginning, ** Far in the East, 

in that forgotten dawn," and in many another stanza of the 

Problems. In somewhat different guise this characteristic is 

visible, even in the entirely unfinished poem. Daybreak in 

the Sierra Nevada, which I have retained for the happy lines 

of its last division. 

As in his verse, so was this young poet in himself : the 
gracious form, clear-cut and sensitive feature, the wise, wide- 
open, smiling eye. He was modest in his bearing, but 
dignified and forceful ; a beautiful soul. He dreamed dreams, 
but yet dealt effectively with affairs. He read widely, but 
noticed shrewdly and with gentle amusement, or real sym- 
pathy, the world about him. He rejoiced in the crowd and 
the solitude alike. He was a good friend. To the art 
in which he deemed himself a mere apprentice, he was 
devoted only in less degree than to the mother who heartened 
him in his ideals. He was her only child, her companion 
and her stay. The tale of his life is short. Born in 
San Francisco, March Z2, 1876, he passed through the 
public schools of Oakland, and was graduated in 1898 from 
the University of California. The next two years he gave to 
advanced studies in botany and zoology, and in 1900 took 
his master's degree in science. He had long been writing 
stories and verse for the University publications, the Occident 
and the Magazine; fi-om 1900 on he gave himself to literary 
study and art. For two years he was engaged as assistant 
in the library and in the English Department of the Univer- 
sity ; and it was in the latter capacity that he was most 
intimately associated with the writer of this imperfect tribute 

[ix] 



Introduction, to his worth. After Junc, 1 902, he devoted his whole time 
to writing. In April of this year he was killed in the way 
already recounted. 

For this publication his mother has placed all of Mr. 
Gibbs's papers at my disposal. I have also had the assistance 
of his classmate, Mr. James Hopper, of McClure'' i ALiga- 
zine, in the collection of floating material. Some of the 
later poems in lighter vein appeared in the Metropolitan, 
Smart Set, and other periodicals of a public character. I think 
that I have overlooked none of any significance. If I have 
published some that he never would have printed, it is because 
I wished to preserve his personality to his friends ; but no 
number of youthful poems could detract from the value of 
the best. Since he had no chance to revise and arrange, I 
have spent some loving care upon the task ; but I knew his 
taste and no change has been made that he would not 
probably have approved. 

Seldom in this world of insistent getting and spending 
does one estimate at its true value the Horatian philosophy of 
sweetness and content, seldom stay **to sing as the bee when 
Tibur-banks are aflower" : 

Inde Jit ut raro qui it "vixisse beatum 
Dicat, et exacto conttntus tempore "vita 
Cedat uti conviva satur^ reperire queamus. 

Charles Mills Gayley. 



[«] 



Contents. 

The Prize -iii 

Songs of Seasons - . i 

A Song for Summer ..-..--^ 

The Sweet of the First-Cut Grass _ . - . ^ 

Siesta _.-- _■-_.. 5 

Rain in the Night --__.-. 6 

The Bold Blue Jay 8 

Daybreak in the Sierra Nevada - - - - - 10 

The Bell-Buoy la 

Problems .-__...-- 15 

The Heretic - - - - - - - - -17 

This Moment's Halt ------- 18 

Quatrains of Qoheleth - - - - - - -21 

Lesser Rubaiyat -------- 14 

lamne Sum Homo? -------29 

Revolt --_-._--. 30 

Aspirations - - - - - - - - -31 

Aspects of Life -- 33 

Song of the Wanderer - - - - - - -35 

The Return of Kunotsuki - - - - - - 36 

Blind 38 

The Ballade of Dwindled Heroes - - - - - 39 

The Marchioness of Yvetot - - - - - -41 

"There is no Pocket in a Shroud" - - - - 44 

The Butterfly on Mt. Shasta ------ 46 

In Lighter Vein 47 

I But Sing as the Bee -----..49 

Romance --------- 51 

Sir Dagonet's Song - - - - - - - S"^ 

A Ballade for Bill 53 

John Chinaman - - - - - - - -54 

The Ballade of Thievery 56 

Rondel to an Absent Ms. - - - - - -57 

[xi] 



Contents. Triolet on the Same ------- jg 

I Wasn't Afraid --------55 

Twilight Town - - - - - - - - 61 

Vers de Socictc ----..--62 

Cupid, Chef 63 

Dan Cupid, Tinkler ------- 6^ 

The Ballade of the Wherewithal - - - - 65 

A Little Book of Doris 67 

A Fair Decision ------- g^ 

Vacation Study -..-----yo 

Between the Lines - - - - - - - 71 

At Last 72 

In Cupid's Mutoscope - - - - - - 73 

Sequel ----------75 

Pleasant Weather 76 

Ballade of the Outing Hat 77 

Haroun's Daughter ------- yg 

Would She? 79 

The Kiss 80 

Sub Rosa - - - - - - - - -81 

Song ..--..-.- gi 



[xii] 



Songs of Seasons. 



A Song: for Summer. f"s^''f 

The meadow-lark ripples out over the stubble, 

A bugle-call merry to herald the sun : 
**Oh, it's May time — it's playtime ! A truce to all trouble ! 

Sing hey, nonny, nomiy ! The Summer's begun." 

Sing ho, nonny, nonny ! The scent of the haying — 
The dew of the morning, the sweet of the year ! 

The heart of each creature's too blithe for the saying 
Of aught but *' Heigh-ei-o ! The Summer is here." 

A-perch on the fence-post the squirrel sits sentry ; 

The rabbit runs skipping ; the creek sparkles by ; 
Small folk of the hill — the sly chaparral gentry, — 

Sing, each in his way, *'Oh, the Summer and I ! " 

Sing hey, for the dawning ! The meadow a-quiver 
With dew, brushed green where the quail trooped 
past, — 

The haze on the mountain, — the glint on the river ! 
Sing heigh-o, the Summer ! It's Summer at last. 



[3] 



Seng, of -p}-,^ Sweet of the First-Cut Grass. 

Staions. 

When mornings grow hot, and we'd fain dispense 
With coats, and our cares to the winds resign, — 

When the day's worlc dawdles, and nerves are tense. 
And for far-off seas, or Sierras, we pine, — 
When a clerk drudges sweatingly, line by line. 

And sees a stray butterfly waver and pass, — 

There's a whifF of the Summer that stirs like wine 

In the freshening scent of the first-cut grass. 

When breezes blow faint with the redolence 

Of orchard and field, — and the clambering vine 

O'erspanning the window each morning invents 
For its traceried green a richer design, — 
When the marigold bed is a golden mine 

To the bees; and laburnums — but let that pass — 
There's an essence oi Summer more subtly fine 

In the freshening scent of the first-cut grass. 

Oh, afar in the mountains there's eloquence 

In the wind-flung spices of balsam and pine ; 
And we thrill by the shore with a keener sense 

In the free, fresh whifF of the tossing brine ! 

But when the new Summer will glow and shine, 
And the sky wear the smile of a blue-eyed lass, — 

Then dreams of all sweetest desires combine 
In the freshening scent of the first-cut grass. 

Tow.N : — Your cares to the wind we resign. 

For we've seen a stray butterfly waver and pass, — 

And there's promise of Summer that stirs like wine 
In the freshening scent of the first-cut grass. 

[4] 



Siesta. f"s'°f 

fdeasons. 



Noon-haze on the ridges, — a droning bee,- 
The chaparral's incense borne to me 
On warm air, drifting drowsily. 

From brown hills, gray in distance ; 
And faint re-echoed from bush and tree. 

The locust's shrill insistence; 
A hawk in the wide blue circling free. 
And, soft as the stir of a far-heard sea, 
A crooning of pine-boughs, dreamily : 

This is the sweet of existence. 



[5] 



^^"S'^f Rain in the Night. 

Seasons. D 



In the darkness, sudden, hushing. 
Hark! the patter of the rain; — 

Beating on the garret shingles, — 

Gust-blown, tapping at the pane ; 

There's a witchery that mingles 
In the music of the rain. 

Yesterday is not; Tomorrow 
Is afar, and haggard Sorrow 

Flees the charmed sway 
Of the fleeting, faery patter. 
Sooth and soft, a murmured chatter, — 
Patter, patter, — little matter 

What happed yesterday ; 
Care is banished with the vanished 

Things of yesterday. 

I 'm a King in Farthest Thule ; — 
Mine are castles by the sea, — 

Pennoned turrets risen newly 

Where the road leads straight and truly 
Into Utopy. 

Truth is seeming ; — Life is dreaming 

To the lulling of the rain. 
Dreaming, — dripping, — Time is slipping. 

And my ship is on the main. 
Coming far, and fast, and fleeter. 

Through the rain. 



[H 



Lo, the fancies, luring, fleeting. Songs of 

Conjured hither by the beating, — 
By the mystic midnight beating 

Of the rain. 
Mark the mellow, hollow cadence,^ — 

Vague, reiterant refrain, — 
The elusive, blending, fleeting. 
Baffling, doubling, quick-repeating. 

Dripping, drumming rhythm of the rain ; 

Hark ! the rain — 

The soft, incessant patter of the rain. 



[7] 



J 



songsof j^i^^ Bold Blue Jay. 

"All in the month of May, rny dear. 
All in a single day — 
Life is dear, yet all too near 
The Shadow is lurking, the thing we fear. 
Though it be the month of May/^ 

So cooed the pale dove, as the flaming sun 

Uprose in the merry May; 
And she was sad when her song was done, 
But the birds laughed — all hut the littlest one — 

And "Psha-a!" scofi^ed the big blue jav. 

Oh, sweet is the air in the golden dawn ! 

"Skurree!" cried the prideful jav, 
"Hurree! for I've my best coat on — 
The bluest the sun e'er shone upon 

In any month of Mav." 

He perked his head and he jerked his tail. 

He flaunted his feathers gav ; 
And he jeered at the dove till she flew over-dale ; 
For who'd ever believe that aught could ail 

Any one — in the month of May? 

So the dove was gone from the old oak tree 
When there came a bov that way ; 

A little air-gun boy was he — 

He crept below, and, wantonly. 
He shot the skipping jav ! 



[8] 



A flutter of blue upon the ground — Songs of 

Alas for the gallant jay ! 
A spatter of red on the leaves around. 
And from over the hills there came the sound 

Of a coo that seemed to say : 

"All in the month of May^ my dear. 

All in a single day — 
Life is dear, yet the thing we fear — 
The Shadow of Death — falls even here 

In the merry month of May.'" 



[9] 



^"S'of Daybreak in the Sierra Nevada. 

Silver and sable sleeps the valley still. 
Cold-gleaming where the moonlight dewy lies 
On rock and meadow and on leaping river 
That tosses, buffeting, the cloudv spray. 
And down the rapid hurls a hundred streams 
To swirl and blacken in the sweep. 

Below, 
Where, over sunken ledge, the river curves. 
And spray-wet boulders cleave the cascade's rush, 
A thundering turmoil shakes the air : — the vast 
Reverberation rolls along the crags — 
Titanic lullaby. The rhythm rocks 
The cradle of the lily, — faint afar. 
Lives to the dizzy pines that crest the cliffs. 
And dies in its own overtones. The winds. 
The glacier-born, through warped storm-stunted 

boughs. 
Harp their wild strain responsive. Now, and now ! 

But now — a hush; an unseen impulse felt! — 
The mountains know another day draws near ; 
The wind is silent, and an orient mist 
O'erveils the heaven before approaching Dawn. 

The rosy pennons of her march are flung 
Across the eastern sky ; the flushed bands 
Creep wide, horizon-circling to the west. 
Where dim and sinking yet a space the moon 
Marshals her remnant legion of the stars. 

[lo] 



See where the sun has touched the western height ! Songs of 

The trees stand mirrored, rippling in the stream ; 

New blossoms hail the day; the flashing trout 

Upleaps and dimples all the wave with drops ; 

Apace the steeps grow into light ; at last 

The slant sun tops the hill, looks down and fires 

The lilac's dew-sprent plumes ; the sudden day 

In joyous flood bursts through the tree-gloomed slope. 

And brims each lily's cup with light and life. 



["] 



^"^"f The Bell-Buo 



aasoni. 



y- 



'* Ding-dong r' 

Oh, the bell-buoy's swinging aloft and alow as 

the sun sets red ; 
Shrill, afar 
To summer lands winging, the birds whistle wild, 

through the gloom overhead. 

*' Dong-ding!'^ 
Send wide the warning ; 

Ring, ring, 
Lest grayly the morning 

Weep over the land — the spar-strewn sand — 
While rolling and shifting. 
Grinding and lifting, 

A surf-shocked hulk is a-pound on the reef ! 
Ring, ring, 

Lest pale-taced grief 
Dreadingly watch from the harbor-pier, — 
Strain weary eyes through the dawning drear. 
For the sail that is spread no more ; 
While far on the foam-lined shore, 
" Dong-ding .'^^ 
The gulls are flying. 
Wheeling, waiting. 
Eddying, crying, 
A wild requiem for the bold and strong, — 
" Ding-dong!'' 
A fit sea-dirge for sailors dying, — 

A weird requiem, where, up and back, 

Adrift with the foam and awash in the slack. 



The face stares white from brown sea-wrack : Songs of 

Stares at the sky, and the gray clouds flying. 

Then Ring — Ring! 
The bell-buoy's tossing and crying afar on the dark- 
ening tide : 
** Dong-ding! 
Ho ye mariner ! ' Ware of the rock ! Steer wide, 
steer wide ! 
Ding-dong-ding ! ' ' 



[13] 



Problems. 



The Heretic. ProbUm,. 

"A Heretic!" the Synod cried. 
White-faced, he bowed not, — nor denied 
The charge. " Recant," his friend implored. 
But he — alone had dared face toward 
A growing Light ; and so — he died. 

There came to me a dream : — a tide 
Of rabble, — shouts, — a gaunt hill's side, — 
They swarmed up, goading One, and roared : 
"A Heretic !" 

Lo, on the top (Death is not wide). 
Three wretches there they crucified ; 
And two were thieves. The Third — they gored 
His side, to finish (**God our Lord, 
In Thy Name!" — loud the Chosen cried,) 
"The Heretic." 



[17] 



^''^'""'- This Moment's Halt. 

Friend, is it sin to question why, forsooth, 

Your God bade "eye for eye, and tooth for tooth," 

But yet again, "Turn thou the other cheek?" 
By echoing Credo shall I grasp the Truth ? 

Nay, prate not of m\ Soul; — possess in peace 
Thine own, if thou'n so sure thou hast one; — cease 

Thy babble of Hereafter, till the Truth 
That lies fast-fettered Here thou canst release ; 

Till thou the meaning of the Here dost know, — 
Till thou canst tell us whence that wind did blow 

That brought us hither. Chart the road we came, 
Ere thou proclaimest whither we shall go ! 

Into this World, with unavailing cry 
Of protest, do we come; — then, life-long, sigh 
For what we dream doth wait, horizon-hid. 
Beyond the World's End; yet — we dread to die. 

Whv, wouldst persuade me then that we possess 
Something my dog has nought of? We express 

Our thought in terms more finely split, 'tis true, — 
And we — we seek, and know not. Happiness : 

That phantom Butterfly we all pursue. 

And know not when we grasp it. — Oft have you 

And I, unseeing, crushed in eager hands 
Its wings ; — yet, lo, it beckons on anew ! — 



[,8] 



This dog we call a brute, and would disclaim Problems. 

As kin, — is not his Life a spark that came 

Whence ours? Go, search thy inmost Being's core. 
And then with his compare ; — nay, ' t is the same. 

Far in the East, in that forgotten Dawn, 

The Sun's new light from out the slime let spawn 

Something that lived, — that ever took new shape. 
And wandered wide ; — and still we wander on. 

Onward we wander in an unmapped land ; 
Slow toiling through a circle-bounded sand 

We seek the fond Mirage that, shimmering o'er 
The desert's rim, lures on with promise bland. 

We yearn, we feel, we know it must be there ; 
Inspired we see, and point where, quivering fair. 

Far in the sun the Golden City glistens, — 
And hasten on — to shifting sands and bare. 

The luring Vision still glides on before ; 
And Man plods after, chasing evermore 

That dreamed Ideal, changing still, yet still 
A fairer Dream and nobler than of yore. 

O Thou who knowest what we are, and why, — 
Thou Whose existence we debate, deny. 

Or still affirm with smooth accustomed phrase. 
And eyes shut lest we doubt, — still, still we cry : — 

O Thou Who knowest why this Life began. 
We falter in the endless Caravan 

That circles through the Waste, misled, and yet — 
Has not our march been onward by a span? 

[^9] 



ProbUmt. Though we reach not the Vision, — only yearn, 
A little way, and fall, yet we return 

Never the self-same track ; so may not Man 
From some far peak at length the Plan discern ? 

Oft in the march of Ages has been one. 
Some burning-heart Foreseer, ^vho has run 

Forth from the van, and from new peaks descried 
At last the Truth ! Near ! Dazzling in the sun ! 

Loud to the host, slow-paced and duller-souled. 
The Seer cries the Word, — " Lo ye ! Behold 

Our God." They worship; — till new Prophets rise. 
And frame a new God better than the old. 

But see the fading moon. The night is spent ; 
The breath of day blows fresh in mingled scent 

Of dawned-kissed hills and woods. The Wilderness 
Is blushing fair ; shall we not be content ? 

Content to know our Journey is not long, — 
That, soon though we drop out, or stray a-wrong, 

The Caravan is creeping toward the Goal, — 
And we have cheered the noon-halt with a song. 



[ao] 



Quatrains of Qoheleth. 

( Ecclesiastes ix.) 

Spanning the Gulf, our Sage midworld suspends 
His Logic-Bridge from moonbeams, and transcends 

The Bounds of Being. While the Voice cries, — 
" Fools ! 
One only thing ye know : that this Life ends." 

We know — one thing we know! — this Boon of Breath 
We forfeit when the cold Hand summoneth. 

Why, then, we're wiser than the Dead, at least! 
They know not that; — nor wonder. What is Death! 

They know not anything ! Yea, all that hoard 

Of Loves and Yearnings and old Hates, deep-scored 

In Memory — They have forgotten all ; — 
Themselves forgot where late they loved and warred. 

Then cease to wrangle in the bootless strife 
Of Did or Did-Not. Ere the icy Knife 

Of Death be at thy throat, make haste — make haste 
To drain the sweetness of this Cup of Life ! 

Still while the throb of Life is in thy veins 
Take merrily of what the World contains ; 

"Drink and be merry," saith the Preacher, **For 
These are the Goods He gives thee for thy pains." 

So when the Prompter of this motley Show 
Whispereth, "Exit," you shall say, "Although 

I came unwitting, — I have played a part. 
Merry I've lingered, and content I go." 

[21] 



Problems 



Probltmt. This Cup that mingles in its too-brief draught 

Delight and Tears; — ah, drink! And when we've 
quaffed 
Our share of joy and woe, — let's then forget 
The Sorrow, and recall whereat we laughed. 

And still, — and still, — were't freely ours to choose. 
Think you that we resolvedly would lose 

One time-endeared remembrance of old Griefs ? 
Would woo Nepenthe first? — Nor first refuse? 

Think you we would forego — forget — one taste 
Of Being's Bitter-Sweet? The interlaced 

Scarlet and ebon of this Tapestry — 
Ah, who would will one thread of it effaced. 

Or who forget one strand of Self? — Ah, yes; 
But when the Angel of Forgetflilness 

Comes hand-in-hand with Death to blot Thee out, 
Then greet thou both, and, smiling, acquiesce. 

"Eat, drink, and make ye merry," quoth the Seer; 
Not so, the Dervish, with pre-prandial sneer 

( He trusts that God hath much in store for him 
Who, sour, despiseth His provision Here ! ) : — 

"Ye bibbing, babbling beasts, the Joys ye prize 
Smell all of Earth. But whoso mortifies 

This Flesh shall revel in the World to Come ; 
Joy never surfeiteth in Paradise ! " 



["] 



So he, a Death's Head sniveling at a Feast, Problems. 

Reviling Goods of Earth as of the Beast — 

He yearns for sugared Bliss beyond the Stars, 
And endless Joys a thousand-fold increased. 

Ah, Love, a truce to thought! We'll out -o'- doors 
And woo the river, watch the hawk that soars 

Beyond the pine-tipped mountain-top, — and you 
Shall sing beneath the whispering sycamores. 

, . . That man shall surely please the Master more 
Who joys outright in his right - earthly store. 

Who drains a brimming measure of Life's Sweet — 
And dowers Me with what aboundeth o'er. 

Who flings the Bird his crumbs ; and doth no worse 
Than merry with the Show we still rehearse ; — 

Who comforteth the Players in it, — then 
Returneth calm into the Universe. 



[^3] 



P">^'""- Lesser Rubaiyat. 

( Vcriificd and arranged from Uuairains of Omar 
not iDcluded in Filzgerald'a Vertion.) 

Throughout this March of Time from Dawn to Dawn 
Two Days are from my Book of Cares withdrawn : — 

The Day whose Sun has not arisen yet, — 
The Day whose Sun the World hath rolled upon. 

Then haste, O Love with tresses of the Night ! 
Pour us ot Vintage that hath not seen Light 

Since this Cup's Clay did live. O haste ! before 
The Potter doth our Clay remodel quite. 

For this same Cup we fill with bubbling Mirth — 
Was't not some Toper, trodden back to Earth ? 

So drink, Khayyam ! ere men shall tread thee, and 
Perchance in Wine-Cups give thy Clay rebirth. 

Quoth I : Man's Essence is the Soul within ; 
Though to the Potter's Clay this Flesh be kin. 
This Flesh is but an Earthen Flagon, while 
The Soul — the Soul ! — it is the Wine therein. 

Man is a weird bepainted Lantern gleaming 
Uncertainly through Wind and Dusk. The streaming 

Light that glows through fancy-figured Shapes, — 
That is the Soul within this painted Seeming. 

"But how — nay, how " quoth he to whom I 

spoke, — 
•' When He who did enkindle shall revoke 

Thy Candle's lease of Light? Remaineth then 
Aught but a moment's Stench of tallow Smoke.'" 

[^+1 



Ah, well, since Time, the Wolf, doth after all Problems. 

Devour both Grief and Joy, — since that we call 

Delight must end, and grieve in ending, — why. 
What matter whether Good or 111 befall? 

I tell thee, this small World, — its Slights and Scorns, 
Its little Cares and Quarrels, Nettles, Thorns, — 

Is worth a Barley-Corn. But then, the Next — 
The Other World? Oh, well, — two Barley-Corns. 

My Friend, this World may, like a Walnut, roll 
Into the Unknown down a Rabbit-Hole 

For all I care. Had I created It 
There' d be two Suns, to shine at either Pole. 

We're happy. (So the Cask be not run out.) 
We're happy. Thus if we maintain it stout 

We shall convince ourselves we are. We are. 
We're happy! Sirrah, drink, — and pass about. 

Lord, free me from these Passions that possess 
My foolish heart, still fettered by a Tress! 

Release me. Lord ! Tea, take me from myself. 
And all this Riddle of the More and Less. 

O when this tavern-turning Foot is still, — 
When, cold at last, this Hand that will — that will 

Clutch at the Cup is quiet, — let me sleep. 
And sleep, and nevermore know Good and III! 

O could we find some place of utter Rest ! 

And there forget all we have dreamed or guessed 

About the Riddle. Ages hence to spring 
Anew like Grasses from the Earth's green Breast. 

[^5] 



Problems. <<Thou knowest thou hast fallen, and how far; 

And Mahmud's Laws — thou knowest what They are; 

Thou knewest. Why, then, why wouldst how) 
And cry on God to pardon thee, Omar?" 

O Thou Who knowest what I am because 

Thou mad'' St me thus, V ve swept as they were Straws 

Thy Spirit-bridling Precepts from my Path, — 
j4nd one by one Vve broken all Thy Laws. 

But still Thou knowest. Lord, the faith-fed Host 
That psalm Thy Glory make especial Boast 

That Thou art so All-Merciful. — Why, then. 
Thou'' It Mercy grant to Me who need it most. 

O Thou whose Aid men ask in all Affairs, — 
Though good Resolves I sowed have all grown Tares, 

At least Thou^ It credit me with this: — that I 
Have ne^er beplagued nor wheedled Thee with Prayers! 

For, Lord, I wot these Saints of Prayer and Fast 
Please Thee no more than doth that Mosque-Outcast 
Who shareth with the Stranger Flask and Loaf, 
And drinks Good-Fellowship with Death at last. 

Their Creed, forsooth, they'd have me swallow blindly, — 
Bepraise a God who shaped our Souls designedly 
For Hell-Fire Fuel. Faith, all my Creed is : 
Drink deep and pass the Bottle, and — be kindly. 



[z6] 



Howe'er, 1 say, we wail of Wrong, this Ball, — Problems. 

This man-infested Clod whereon we crawl, — 

Is scarce a Dust-Mote quivering 'twixt the Spheres, 
And Justice ;/ the Soul that moves it All. 

And hearken, thou who yet hast never grieved 
To find once more the trellised Vine new-leaved. 
And tulip-dappled Spring once more reminding 
How from thy World the filching Year hath thieved : 

To mark once more how Time, the stealthy-paced. 
Doth still the Gardens of thy Love lay waste, — 

Thy dwindling Fellowship of Youth, grown old. 
Summer by Summer fi-om the Book erased, — 

When thou and I are blotted from the List, 
A little while no doubt we shall be missed; 

They'll set up bricks upon thy grave and mine 
To mark that Thou and I did once exist. 

A Brick, betokening this World's concern 

With Thee or Me ! And then, to make, in turn 

Another brick to mark another grave. 
Thy Clay, perchance, or mine, they'll dig and burn. 

Let whoso aim at Empire grasp the whole 
Wide realm of Alexander, and enscroll 

His Name in Lightnings. Better sing one Song 
To lift the sadness fi-om a weary Soul ! 

For be thou wise as Aristotle, — yea. 
Or potent thou as Monarch of Cathay, 

Or Roman Caesar : — comes the End, and none 
Shall know Thy Ashes from the common Clay. 

[27] 



Problems. Then, why not sing r For even though this Ba!!,- 
This man-bewildered Clod whereon we crawl, — 
Seem scarce a Dust-Mote quivering 'twixt the 
Spheres, 
One 'Justice moves, and equalizes, AIL 



[z8] 



lamne Sum Homo? 

( After Chuang-Tau.) 

There came to me a dream, — a whimsy dream : — 
'Twas yonder where the almond blossoms seem 

So snowflake fragile; — I, a Butterfly! 
Poised on the pearliest top-most bloom, supreme. 

I drank of nectar, floating here and there 

On jet and crimsoned wings. What should I care 

Or think of morrow? Was it not for me 
That He created all this garden fair? 

And it was droll — amused me to recall — 

A dream where I on two feet seemed to crawl. 

As 'twere a man, — a creeping, wingless Man ! 
My walkings bounded by the garden wall. 

Today, this much I know — I am a man. 
Yet — yesterday, I know, I dreamed I ran 

On earth-bound feet ; — I was the Butterfly. 
Then God of dreams, — show us the Plan — the Plan ! 

For now how can I tell ? How can I tell ? 
Tomorrow will the breeze of Dawn dispel 

Those Mists of Dream ? — And show mayhap 
that I, 
Today a man, am dreaming this as well? 



Problems. 



[^9] 



Problem,. Revolt. 

(After eomcthing in Chinete literature.) 

why should I use tact lest men discern 

My feelings? — lest the nameless They should learn 
J'm thus and so that's bad? / know V m I! 
If you misjudge me, — well, that's your concern. 

Yet how we hedge and shift, with lips discreet. 
To screen the Truth, — for fear, unmasked, we meet 

The Mob's short-focussed gaze. Why, what's applause 
Not merited ? — that it should seem so sweet ? 

See how I mark and point the sad defects 
In every Friend we know ( as each dissects 

His Neighbor's Folly), — and still hug the faith 
That Some see Me unflawed in all aspects ! 

1 saw ten Dervishes sleep side by side 
In peace upon one carpet, while the tide 

Of War o'erswept the land, and two Kings fought 
Because they had an Empire to divide. 



[30] 



Aspirations. 



Problems. 



Am I a fool? For I can't tell; 
Sometimes I think I feel the swell 
Of shadowy thoughts, and yearnings vast 
And vague, — lost memories of the Past, — 
That seem to compass Heaven and Hell. 

And then I think I've power to spell 
In words the things we feel; — yet, — well. 
It all resolves to this at last, — 
"Am I a fool?" 

I'd sail the weird old caravel 
Of Fancy, till I heard the bell, — 
Afar through purple mists, — at last. 
That wakes the dim shores of the Past ! — 
I'd paint it all in words? Ah, well. 
Am I a fool? 



[31] 



Aspects of Life. 



Song of the Wanderer. tfr"''^ 

( Refrain from Lytton's Kenelm Chillingly.) 

The World that I traverse is wide, is wide, — 

And yet is too narrow to hold Content. 

When Flush o' the Dawn and of Youth were blent 
The Rainbow stood on the mountain-side ; 
I followed, — I followed, — it was my guide 

Till the glow of it faded, and Youth was spent : 
For the World that I traverse is wide, is wide, — 

And yet is too narrow to hold Content. 
Oh, it's farther, and farther, whate'er betide. 

With steps still after the Vision bent ! 

For the Rainbow stands on the next ascent. 
And it's yonder and yonder that we'll abide. 
Oh, the World that I traverse is wide, is wide, — 

And yet is too narrow to hold Content ! 



[35] 



A^pccnof Yi^g Return of Kunotsuki.* 

Life. 

I came through the village, and none — not one — 

Saw aught but a traveler, strange and old ; 
Still swift as of yore doth the river run, 

But fast as the river the years have rolled ; 

Now are the hearts of men grown cold. 
And Youth is a word graved on a tomb ; 

Yet, ah ! — as I came by the riverside, — hold ! 
'Twas the old sweet scent of Azalea bloom. 

The rice-fields, shimmering green in the sun. 

Arc narrower now than they seemed of old ; 
Here used we to watch how the dragon-flies spun 

About us in mazes of scarlet and gold ; 

But now those fiery blazonings bold 
Are dimmed, — as the tinsel that used to illume 

Our shadowless world where all grief was consoled 
In the sooth sweet scent of Azalea bloom. 

Changed, all changed where my life was begun ! 

New paths they have trodden where once we 
strolled ; 
And here, — in that garden where, one by one. 

We saw the gay banners ot Iris unfold, — 

The vine-curtained arbor is sunk into mould. 
And only there lingers the old perfume 

From the Tale that shall never again be told, — 
The sad sweet scent of Azalea bloom. 



* On Kunottuki-Kiootsrayukl, see Cbincie-Jipancic Repository, 
Vol. II-Ul,p. )4!- 

[36] 



Friend of My Youth : — Though our hearts be cold. Aspects of 

Life 

And new paths trodden where once we strolled, — ■^ 

Lo, the Past drifts back in this weird perfume, — 
The old sweet scent of Azalea bloom. 



[37] 



Aspunof Blind. 

Life. 



Now I know the Stars are burning. 

Blazing through the depths of Night. 

All the Galaxy is bright ; 
Far the Spheres are wheeling, turning, — 
Here am I, blind Atom, yearning 

For a gleam — a gleam of Sight! 
Now I know the Stars are burning, 

Blazing through the depths of Night. 
Thou Unseen and All-Discerning : 
Less for Glare of Day I'm yearning, — 

Oh, but let me see the Night — 

When the Worlds are all alight ! — 
When the Stars are countless, burning. 

Blazing through the depths of Night. 



[38] 



The Ballade of Dwindled Heroes. i%''''°f 

Ltfe. 

Oh, where are our heroes who fought with Spain? 

But lately, with pageant and jubilant shows. 
We greeted them, garlanded back again. 

Paraded them, — praised — as a nation owes. — 

Their Victory's wreath is a withered rose. 
The red of their triumph is smoldered to gray; — 

The newsmonger counts it a scoop to expose 
The flaws in our heroes of yesterday. 

Their hours of glory and dazzlement wane. 

Great God ! That the warriors should fall to blows. 
And scramble and sue for the rags that remain 

Of the Glory that's lost — however it goes! 

Will not one keep the heroic pose? 
Will each convince us he's only clay? 

Or is the fault ours who forget ? God knows ; 
They used to be heroes, yesterday. 

Now happy are they who went down with the Maine ! 

It's a perilous honor to rout one's foes! 
And they who demolished the navy of Spain, — 

Their fame is a phantom that shadier grows. 

Who fell in the trenches win repose. 
And a thanks whose lustre shall last for aye ; 

But they who came home to be crowned, — ah, 
those, — 
Those are our heroes of yesterday. 



[39] 



Asfecis of Friends: — Is it we who forget? Who knows? 
•^ ■ Or were all our demigods idols of clay ? 

And the crown — is a withered and thorny rose 
Enough for a hero of yesterday ? 



[40] 



The Marchioness of Yvetot. if'^f 

Life. 
(An EpithaUmium for an American girl.) 

Make way, — make way, ye ! Stand aside ! 

Make way! They're coming out. 
Fling wide the church doors ; — fling them wide. 
Hail to the Marquis and his Bride ! 
( Support him on the other side, 

Is't palsy or the gout?) 

Hail to the Bride ! ( Now lout we low. ) 

All Hail, the happy pair ! 
Hail, Marchioness of Yvetot ! 
Now mark her blushes come and go, — 
All rosy red and white as snow, — 

White as the Bridegroom's hair. 

The Marchioness of Tvetot! 
Hailt Marchioness of Tvetot! 
( Her mouth, it is a Cupid ' j Bow. ) 
Hail, Marchioness of Tvetot! 



Her cheek is fair as porcelain. 

Her mouth — so sweetly curved ! 
He'* s lived the life of — Gentlemen; 
And if he choose to wed again 
Why not? 'Tis true he's old, — but then 

Amazing well preserved. 



[41] 



,1 



u^spects of A Marquis — what though he be old ? — 

•' ' A Marquis still is he. 

And what though he be frosty polled ! 
Right Princely blood runs never cold. — 
And see the Bride; — her hair is gold; — 
And Gold, Gold, Gold hath she. 

O Marchioness of Tvetot ! 

Now, Marchioness of Tvetot, 

Tou''ve got your Hearths Desire, I trow. 

Marchioness of Tvetot! 

Be off, ye unwashed and unfed ! 

You hussy, will ye stare ? 
You ! flaunting here your cheek of red. 
Who, shameless, sell yourself for bread ! 
Your soul doth taint, as it were dead. 

The Marchioness's air. 

To sell oneself for bread to eat ! 

Faugh ! — Rabble, stand aside ! 
His Lordship's carriage ! Clear the street. 
Now hand my Lady to her seat ; 
( Assist the Marquis, — mind his feet ! ) 

Now cheers, — cheers for the Bride ! 

Ho Marchioness of Tvetot! 

Hail, Marchioness of Tvetot! 

( Now lout ye, fellows. — Lout ye low.') 

Hail, Marchioness of Tvetot! 



[4^ 



Yet saw ye in the Chancel there. Aspects of 

Marchioness of Yvetot, * 

High in the window, pictured fair. 

One that wept, and loosed her hair? 

Mary o' Magdala? — but there, — 
All that was long ago ! 

O Marchioness of Yvetot! 

Marchioness of Yvetot! 

God help you now! How can He, though. 

Marchioness of Yvetot? 



[43] 



A,p.a>of ^^xhere is no Pocket in a Shroud." 

Lije. 

( The refrain bjr J. W. B., M. D., in the Mtnter, a magizine 
publiiheJ by the Masiachusctts Slates Prison. February, 1901.) 

Vc men of Gold ! — Ye men of Gold ! 

Heed not the fool that prophesies. 
A many, many things are told. 

And in this World are many lies ; — 

Yet hark ye to the Voice that cries — 
In the desert, — in the crowd: — 

He's neither rich nor poor who dies. 
"There is no pocket in a shroud." 

For be ye rich and little-souled. 

Or be ye purple-robed and wise, — 

Or simple be ye, and acold, — 

Still when the last Accounting nighs, — 
When Priests have closed the Prince's eyes. 

And when the peasant's Field is plowed, — 
Then each by each full friendly lies ; 

"There is no pocket in a shroud." 

Yet some there are would clutch and hold 

Their gainings, — some way yet devise 
To build from what they've bought and sold, 

A golden ladder to the skies ; 

And some there are who still despise 
Whom Want hath pinched, or Toil hath bowed ;- 

To all — to all — the Voice replies: 
"There is no pocket in a shroud." 



[44] 



Prince : — They don the self-same guise Aspects of 

Life 

Whom Gold hath blessed, — whom Want hath •' 
bowed ; — 
He's neither rich nor poor who dies; 
"There is no pocket in a shroud." 



[45] 



^'^'lJ/ ^^^ Butterfly on Mt. Shasta. 

Up where the mountain's frost-scarred granite cold 
Reared crag and glacier toward the azure vast. 
Wherethrough the sun blazed icily, and cast 

CliiF shadows o'er the sleeping snows of old, — 

Our breath came gaspingly, — and yet, behold, 

Amidst that untrod whiteness, green-crevassed, — 
A jeweled butterfly, imprisoned, glassed 

With frosted crystal over wings of gold ! 

Poor gilded trifler ! Did it, too, aspire 

To soar above the World and Common Things 
Braving the height divine on tinseled wings ? 
To learn, too late, that oft one's cherished fire 
Is but a dazzling Faith that mocks Desire, — 
One's loftiest flight still only flutterings ? 



[4fi] 



In Lighter Vein. 



I But Sing as the Bee. 



In Lighter 
Vein. 
(Horace. Odesiv: 2.) 



/ but sing as the bee, when Tibur-banks are afiower. 
Hoarding the tribute sweet of thyme-bloom and clover, — 
So into song I distil Chloe^ s kiss, small sweets of the hour. 
And wine sparkling over. 

Antony,— shall I strive to such loftier flight ? — unable. 
Seeking to rival Pindar ? Nay, w^hat a notion ! 
So, — a sun-struck Icarus, — tumbling, my glory might label 
A spot in the ocean. 

Pindar's psalm immense rolls deep w^ith the sweep and the 
roaring 

Of torrents, singing of Gods, — of heroes immortal ; 

Pindar, Sw^an of Dirce, to cloud-w^reathed Olympus up- 
soaring. 

Chants at Jove's portal. 

But idly I sing in the sun, when Tibur-banks are afiower. 
Hoarding small sweets, like the bee amid thyme-blossom and 

clover, — 
So I distil into song Chloe^ s kiss, and delights of an hour. 
With cups sparkling over. 

Antony, — thou to the Gods, who again have victory 

granted, 
Offerest scores, their blood on the altar-stones spouting; — 
One beast I ; but my voice shall swell (when the ode thou 

hast chanted) 

The tumult and shouting. 



[49] 



In Lighter Thou, O Antony, thou, — whcD Under the palms and the 

yiin. , 

arches 
Caesar in triumph advances, — shall hail him, clear-voicing 
Rome's acclaim ; and as, silent, the column of captives 

marches. 

We'll join the rejoicing ! 

But mine is the song of the bee, when Tibur-banks are 

ajlower. 
Gleaning a tribute sweet from thyme-blossom and clover f 
So into song I distil Chloe '/ kisses, the sweets of the hour. 
And wine bubbling over. 



[50] 



Romance. {; .^'^'^'*'- 

When I'm aweary of this Wheel of Days, — 

O tell me tales of long and long ago ! 

There is no El Dorado now, we know ; 
Our World is all enmeshed in well-trod ways ; — 
Night' s but a garish incandescent blaze ; 

Through all the Seas we commerce to and fro. 
O when I'm weary of this Wheel of Days, 

Tell me a tale of long and long ago : 

A tale that echoes, — through the afterglow 
Of glorious ages, and the purpling haze 
Of Time, — old mysteries, and ancient frays, — 

Old joys, and triumphs, pageantries, and woe. 
When I'm aweary of this Wheel of Days, 

O tell me tales of long and long ago ! 



[SI] 



In Lighter sif Dagonct's Song. 



Cracked my brain. Oh Ho ! but shout 
The catch, nor let the bowl go dry ; 

Cracks but let the sadness out. 
Let crone Care go by 

Oh Ho! 
A merry wight am I. 

Let crone Care go by, go by. 
Let in the free sunlight; 

If we can see the sky, glad sky. 
Who cares to see aright? 

Knights each other's crowns may crack 
To prove whose maid shines bright ; 

But who's already cracked, good lack ! 
Is wiser than Sir Knight ; 

Oh Ho! 
He is a merry wight. 

Then, clink, the bumpers round, around. 
Fool Knight, Sir Fool, and maid ; 

We'll all sleep long and sound, full sound. 
When 'neath the clover laid 

Low, low. 
In ivied tower's shade. 

Let crone Care go by, go by. 
Let in the free sunlight ; 

If we can see the sky, the sky. 
Who cares to see aright ? 

[5^] 



A Ballade for Bill. %^'^''''- 



Hither and thither and over the seas, — 

Whithersoever or how we fare, — 
With silver and linen and wine and ease. 

Things don't taste as they tasted there : 

The river, the pines, and the balsamed air ! 
Mountains between us and all town worry ; — 

Hunger as keen as the cook was rare, — 
And old Bill stewing the venison curry. 

Idling and wandering whither we please. 

Miles and miles from a woe or care, — 
Riffles, and crags, and the whispering trees, — 

The lak** that we came on unaware ! 

Through the dusk forest, — o'er ridges bare, — 
Hunting things feathery, finny, or furry, — 

Weary the back trail to camp ; — but there 
Was old Bill stewing the venison curry. 

When night was astir with a shivering breeze 

Then old Bill spun, by the camp-fire's flare. 
The yarn of the Coon and the Hive o' Bees, 

Or the fable of George and the One-Eyed Bear. 

Serene as a King, be it storm or fair. 
Smoking his cob, and ne'er in a hurry, — 

Flopping straw hat on his grizzled hair, — 
That's old Bill stewing the venison curry. 

Dear Old Bill : — Though Fate decrees 

We toil in the town, with its racket and worry,- 

Some day we'll escape to the whispering trees. 
And you. Bill, stewing the venison curry. 

[S3] 



'^"^'f/f*'^ John Chinaman. 

J 

John, John, Chinaman, the taunting gamins cry. 

But he shuffles by | 

And his sole reply \ 

Is a vengefol gleam in his beady eye ; 

The reason why ? \ 

**Boy heap lie. 

And Chinaman he go jail." j 

So he ambles away, j 

And his baskets sway j 

With his legs keeping time to the yoke-pole's play, j 

Jog-trotting up-hill and down dale. \ 

John's weazened head is religiously shorn, • 

Save his cue | 
Which is bound in the knot that the ladies call Psyche, j 
'Neath a rusty slouch hat, that's battered and worn; 

And his faded blouse is tattered and torn, I 

And patched in many a hue ' 
Of denim that once was blue ; 
And manicure? **Nah," I fear he **no likee." 

But '*me likee" to sing ' 

As the baskets swing, ' 

And the clogs clap time to the pack-pole's spring, | 

A plaintive carol of old Peking, 1 
That shrills in a painfully high key. 



[54] 



Now here's to you, John Chinaman ! /» Lighter 

And may you grow fat and rich ! 

You may be a heathen, but you're the man 

That minds his own business and gets what he can. 

Though the Christian give him the ditch. 

Then here's to your health, John Chinaman, 

Your wives and your wealth, John Chinaman, 

Both blessings be yours, by and by ! 

And when you grow old. 

With a sock foil of gold. 

May you sail to the land whose consecrate mould 

Is the only good bed when you die ! 

Where the iris blows. 

And the Yellow Stream flows, — 

In a dozen silk coats and just repose 

May you live ! And when, tippling. 

You lounge where the rippling 

Of water, through willow-tip bending fiill low. 

Makes lullaby slow. 

May you tell yellow tales to wee, gaudy-clad kids. 

With eyes like the depths of your tea-cup, — 

And doze 

Till the tea-garden orchestra squeak up ! 

Then here's to your health, John, 

And though it's by stealth, John, 

You smuggled you into this land of the free. 

Ere your pig-tail's gray. 

May you blithely away 

To wear a red button with your ancestree. 



[55] 



/«z,;|^«r n^i^Q Ballade of Thievery. 



Humanity, why so prone 

To swipe? — Ye Gods, reveal ! — 
To snaggle things not one's own? 

To adhere to, you know, — not steal ! 

Now mark how a man may deal 
Straight Goods in the Mart, and scatter 

Much Pence to the Poor, — yet feel 
An Umbrella's a — different matter. 

For, oh ! my Umbrella is flown 

From my clutches. Say, is it an Eel ? 

Or has it took Wings of its own? 

Not so ! There were Fingers facile. 
And a Smith — a felonious steal ? 

Steal ? Nay ; when rain-drops patter. 
And gathering thunders peal. 

An Umbrella's a — different matter? 

Nay, Satan ! I may not condone ! 

Speak, Smith ! Couldst always conceal, 
Wouldst pilfer me all that I own ? — 

Thou blushest like cochineal ! 

Thou sportest an Automobile, 
And a Diamond ( or soakest the latter ! ) . 

Wouldst rob me ? Gadso ! then to steal 
My Umbrella's a different matter? 

Smith : — Art really so prone 

To thieve? I surmise that you flatter 
Yourself that you're not; — that to bone 

My Umbrella's a different matter! 

[56] 



Rondel to an Absent Ms. inUghur 

Vein. 

Far hast thou wandered from home before. 

But ne'er — oh, never! — stayed so long; 

Save only Thee, all, all my throng 
Of errant Poems, evermore 
Fly fondly homeward, o'er and o'er. 

And punctual as 'twere Ping and Pong. 
Thou, too, hast wandered far before. 

Yet ne'er — oh, never! — stayed so long. 

What Knave so vile would do Thee wrong? 
Say, hath some sharkish Editor 
E'en coveted the Stamps you bore? 

Usurped the same fi-om Thee, my Song? 
Far hast thou wandered from home before. 

But ne'er — oh, never! — stayed so long. 



[57] 



In Lighter Triolet on the Same. 

yetn. 

The postman comes, and the postman goes, — 
O where is my wandering Poem tonight ? 

Yea, where are the Stamps I did duly enclose ? 

For the postman comes and the postman goes. 

And somewhat he bringeth, — yet none that shows 
*Tis addressed to myself in my own hand- write. 

And the postman comes and the postman goes, — 
But where is my wandering Poem tonight ? 



[5S] 



I Wasn't Afraid. in Lighter 

Vein. 

I was just looking in through the fence next door. 

And the big dog growled and barked so grim, — 
Just the way in the circus the lions roar 
Through the bars, — but I'd heard them before. 
And I wasn't afraid of him. 

He was fierce, — oh, my ! ' 

And as mad ! But I 

Just was n't afraid of him at all ; 

So I looked in his eye. 

And I walked right by, — 
For I wasn't afraid at all. 



I climbed all along where the alders lean '' 

From the rocks by the river, and there in the shade I 

Is the hole where the big boys dive; — but I've seen ; 

Lots of water like that, — just deep and green, — ] 
And I wasn't the least afraid. 

Way down there, and dim, ' 

You can see the fish swim ; \ 

But I held on tight, so I couldn't fall; ';. 

Oo, the cold green river ! j 

I did kind o' shiver, \ 

But wasn't afraid at all. \ 



[59] 



In Lighter We were coming home late from Uncle Roy's, 
Where the trees are awfully dark and tall ; 
And Katie was scared when we heard a noise, — 
But I guess girls mostly are 'fraider than boys. 
For I wasn't scared at all. 

It was only the breeze 

Made a noise in the trees. 
And I wasn't afraid of the dark at all; 

There was Something that hopped, — 

Kept still when we stopped, — 
But I wasn't afraid at all. 



When everybody had gone to bed. 

The owl came flying so quiet, and lit 

By the window; — and ** Who-oo-oo-ooo!" he said; 

But I pulled up the quilt clear over my head, — 
And I wasn't afraid a bit. 

It makes you feel queer. 

When it sounds so near, — 
Though you're really not scared of an owl at all; 

And his " Who-oo-oo-ooo " 

Is so mournful, too, — 
But I wasn't afraid at all. 



[60] 



Twilight Town. ^f^J^^"' 

Oh, Twilight Town is the other side 

Of the Hills of the Sunset Light ! 
Just on the shore of the Sleepy Tide, 
Where the weird dream-ships at anchor ride. 

Till they sail away at night. 

They sail away over the Slumber Sea, 

And the pilot? None can tell. 
But who may the crew and the passengers be ? 
There's Tommy and Elsie, and several wee 

Little scamps that we know well. 

With the whitest of carpets the decks are spread 

And guarded with golden rails ; 
Old Santa Claus is the figurehead, — 
And soft by a lullaby air they're sped 

That billows the misty sails. 



[6i] 



^"^i^"" Vers de Societe. 

Vein. 

When Cupid dons the Cap and Bells, 

And courts in Rhyme the Comic Muse, — 
The Deity of Mirth he woos 

In blithe Ballades, Rondeaux, Rondels ; — 

Wherethrough sly Laughter bubbling wells. 
And Banterings their venom lose ; — 

When Cupid dons the Cap and Bells, 
And courts, jocose, the Comic Muse. 

Gay Badinage of Beaux and Belles, — 

The merry Woe of him who tells 

With tearful Grin the Plight he rues ; — 
To laugh with these — ah, who'll refuse 

When Cupid dons the Cap and Bells, 

And courts in Rhyme the Comic Muse ? 



[62] 



Cupid, Chef. ^^.^^^'^'^ 

Now I'm Cupid's devotee. 

He's the King of Cooks, I swear! 
Runneth a Rotisserie, — 

And his Understudy there 

Is a Maid who griUeth rare 
And serveth us with — all we get. 

For it's all the Bill of Fare,— 
Hearts, a-sizzling en brochette. 

Cupid kills the meat ; and he 

Ne'er a pavid Heart doth spare; — 
Pierceth by his Archery, — 

Snareth with a golden Hair. 

Then that Maid who Doesn't Care 
Helps him o'er the chafer set — 

Arrow-skewered, pair and pair, — 
Hearts, a.sizzling en brochette. 

Artists they in Grillerie, — 

She and Cupid ! I declare. 
What 's a Heart that 's flying free ? 

Skewered Heart 's the only fare ! 

No Rotisserie was e'er 
Busy as Chef Cupid's ; yet 

One lone dish they serve you there, — 
Hearts, a-sizzling en brochette. 

Cooks: — I'm Cupid's devotee 

(And eke his Understudy's) — yet 
Naught's served at his Rotisserie 

But Hearts, a-sizzling en brochette. 

[63] 



In Lighter j)^jj Cupld, TinklcF. 



I ' d tell, — but, bless us ! I forget 

Whom first I was distract about ; — 
But several more ere Nan I met, — 

'Twas she I'd not exist without; 

Then sure my heart was broke ! No doubt 
'Twas something cracked, — but in the end 

There came a little tinkler lout 
With, "Hearts to mend, O, — hearts to mend!" 

He patched my heart. But ah, the debt 
I paid to Grace ! She was devout ; 

And I grew so, — till that coquette 

Corinne, — with smile and wile and pout, — 
My suffering heart turned inside out. 

That she and Kate might toss and send 
The battered thing by turns about ! 

Then ** Hearts to mend, O, — hearts to mend!" 

'Twas Magdalene, — I see her yet! — 

All flickering fancies put to rout ; 
Ah, how she danced that minuet ! 

Yet now I hear she's growing stout. 

And then? — well, if I 'scape the gout, 
I'll toddle after to the end 

That vagrant tinkler with his shout, 
"Old Hearts to mend, O, — hearts to mend!" 

Ye Men and Maids whose hearts have met 
With accidents that rive and rend : — 

Dan Cupid, Tinkler, don't forget, — 

"Old Hearts to mend, O, — hearts to mend!" 

[64] 



The Ballade of the Wherewithal. y^t'^^"'' 

Many a How hath barred 

Our Progress here below ; 
Many's the Scheme that's marred 

By a Which, or perchance Why so? 

Such are the problems though 
That bother me scarce at all ; 

It's this I want to know: — 
Where is the Wherewithal? 

Some of us most regard 

The Whether and Which, as though 
Nothing but these retard. 

And render Attainment slow. 

Which will I have ? (I trow 
The embarrassment here is small.) 

Both of 'em, sure ! But, no, — 
Where is the Wherewithal? 

Many's the Ship ill-starred 

Gold would have made to go ; 
Many the heart-wrung Bard 

Must sing for the Coin also. 

I would build Cities, and, lo ! — 
Palace, and Chapel, and Hall ; — 

Demands Mephistopheles, **Whoa! 
Where is the Wherewithal ?^^ 

Lover : — This World is marred 

With Riddles; but most of all 
This is the one that's hard: — 

Where is the Wherewithal? 

[65] 



A Little Book of Doris. 



A Fair Decision. i- , j, ^ I 

Little Book % 

of Doris. J 

I've thought I'd decide ,1 

On just when you look sweetest ; i< 

Aye, Doris, I've tried, .'; 

But each time I decide, — i 

Having sought far and wide | 
For adverbials meetest, — 

Lo, there, — I decide | 

That just now you are sweetest. % 



[69] j 



LiuUB^k Vacation Study. 

of Doris, 

We 're reading in Horace, 

And Doris declines 
(^Sub umbra arbor is — 
It's all in the Horace) 
Thus, — * * amor, amor is ; — ' ' 

But amor of mine's 
Not that — it's in Horace — 
Which Doris declines. 



[70] 



Between the Lines. i- i -p ^ 

Ltitk Book 
of Doris. 

Though I read many books. 

They are all about Doris ; 
You'd judge from their looks 
That these flisty old books 
Were abstruse ; — but Gadzooks ! 

How pleasant their lore is ! — 
I read many books. 

But they're all about Doris. 



[71] 



,. . „^ At Last. 

Lattle Book 
of Doris. 

Vacation is ended. 

Gay airs we are humming ; 
My woes are all mended, — 
Vacation is ended, — 
And everything's splendid. 

For Doris is coming ; 
Vacation is ended. 

Gay airs we are humming. 



[7^] 



In Cupid's Mutoscope. ;^.„,^^^^, 



Her Aunt's house, — tea, — 
And I'm invited ! 

Who'll be there? She.— 

Her Aunt's house, — tea ; — 

You ask me — me — 
Why I'm delighted? 

Her Aunt's house, — tea, — 
And I 'm invited ! 

** From Four to Seven;" 

Vive r Amour! 
A glimpse of heaven 
"From Four to Seven;" 
Would 'tw^ere Eleven ! 

She'll be there, sure; 
"From Four to Seven;" 

Vive P Amour ! 

Gad, what a crowed ! 

Where can she be? 
All talking loud, — 
Gad, what a crowd ! 
Who's that that bowed? 

They stare at me ; 
Gad, what a crowd ! 

Where can she be ? 



of Doris. 

i 



[73] 



■A A deuced jam ! 

Ltttle Book f,, , , 

of Doris. She wasn t there; 

Met old Madame 

( A deuced jam ! ) ; 

She thinks I am — 

Oh, I don't care ! 
A d — deuced jam ! 

She wasn't there. 



[74] 



Sequel. 



A 

Little Book 
of Doris. 

Well, Love is blind. 

Declares she bowed ; — 
She was there, mind ; 
Well, Love is blind. 
And can't even find 

Her in a crow^d ; 
Yes, Love is blind, — 

But she — she bowed. 



[75] 



,. , „^ Pleasant Weather. 

Ltttle Book 
of Doris. 

Three ways at once it rained and blew — 
And yet 'twas pleasant weather; 

The path was muddy — room for two. 

Three ways at once it rained and blew ; 

Said Doris: ** I don't care; do you?" 
We laughed at storms together ; 

Three ways at once it rained and blew — 
Yet, faith, 'twas pleasant weather! 



[76] 



Ballade of the Outing Hat. f,^,^^^^, 

of Doris. 
Oho, for we care not, — we care not a rush 

For the glooms that are vanished, and sober Lents ! 
Now glad-eyed Summer has come with a blush 

And a breath of wild roses, and dim wood scents ; 

It's now that the primrose and clovers commence 
To border our path with a damasked mat ; — 

But, faith, it's the gladdest of all portents 
That Doris has donned her Summer Hat. 

No wintry creation of plumes and plush, — 

No Easter-tide vision, beflowered, ingens, — 
As trim as a bird, it is simply — but hush, — 

In milliner-lore She deposes I'm dense; 

Yet though a refractory Something prevents 
Near knowledge of how it is trimmed, and all that, — 

I'll reap the reward of abstinence. 
Now Doris has donned her Summer Hat. 

For now we shall wander where meadows are lush ; 

We'll over the slopes where peace frequents. 
Where the pines thrill soft to the river's rush, — 

Dim murmurs that sing to a finer sense ; 

Oh, the thousand- voiced hush of the woods, more tense 
Where the woodpecker hides and repeats his rat-tat! 

Hail Shades of old Izaak ! We'll joyfiilly hence. 
Now Doris has donned her Summer Hat. 

Town : — Farewell, for Doris consents, — 

The clovers are spreading a damasked mat. 
And it's there by the river we'll pitch our tents. 

Now Doris has donned her Summer Hat. 

[77] 



A 

Little Book 
of Doris. 



Haroun's Daughter. 

She thought not of it ; or she thought, perchance, — 
*' Let me do good, and cast it on the waters." 
Lightly she cast a sweet and fleeting glance. 
She thought not of it ; or she thought, perchance, — 
"I'll give him stuff to weave a whole romance." 

She smiled, — the youngest of old Haroun's daughters. 
She thought not of it ; or she thought, perchance, — 
"Let me do good, and cast it on the waters." 



[78] 



Would She? f,„,„, 

of Doris. 

If I should kiss you, little maid, — 
Yes, kiss you, you, so sweetly staid, — 

Just up and kiss you. Eyes o' Blue, — 

By Jove ! I wonder what you ' d do ? 
Look scornful ? Tearful ? Sore dismayed ? 

In those soft eyes there *d be displayed 
Blue summer lightnings, I'm afraid, — 

The blue of steel to stab me through, — 
If I should kiss you. 

Those lips are sure not fit nor made 

For words of wrath. Could they upbraid 

For daring what they tempt one to ? 

Would cheeks flare up a rosier hue. 
Or in white heat of anger fade. 

If I should kiss you? 



[79] 



r- , n^. The Kiss. 

Little Book 
of Doris. 

Then the stars went drunk and dancing. 

And the moon was in eclipse ; 
Saw her eyes, half-tearfiil glancing, — 
Then the stars went drunk and dancing ; — 
Staked my World upon the chancing, — 
Kissed her — kissed her on the lips. 
Then the stars went drunk and dancing. 
And the moon was in eclipse. 



[80] 



Sub Rosa. ^.,,^^^^, 



of Doris. 



What tho' the sun go high, go low ! 

Under the roses what care we?. 
For none but we and the gold-finch know, — 
There were none but I and the finch to see 

The tints of rose 
In her face when we — 
Ah, well, — one may do without mistletoe. 
Under the rose. 

She and I and a bit of a bird, — 

Under the clambering rose, we three ; 
And much may be said in a single word. 
One short syllable though it be, — 

For the gold-finch knows 
She whispered me 
What only I and the gold-finch heard. 
Under the rose. 

Then what heed we that the sun is low ? 

We have a secret no one heard ; 
She and I and the gold-finch know 

Much may be uttered in one small word. 
Under the rose. 



[8i] 



A 

Utile Book 
of Doris. 



Song. 

For what though the World be wide, be wide. 

And many a land there be 
That lureth the wandering soul to bide, — 
If Love o' my Love yet be denied 

To me, — to me ! 

And what though the World be wide, be wide. 

And Glory and Gold there be, — 
If the blood be cooled, and the heart o' me dried, - 
If the madness o' Love be all denied 

To me ! 



[82] 




\" 



i.- 



